


Black Rose

by BritanniaFork (orphan_account)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Horror, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Pining, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 15:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15512889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/BritanniaFork
Summary: Edward Nygma's plans for Jim Gordon are coming along swimmingly, that is until a string of gruesome murders start the GCPD on a lead around Gotham City.





	Black Rose

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my gift recipient, confusedvee! Hope it's okay! ❤

It was during times like the present that Edward Nygma found himself to have a one-track-mind of sorts. His current priority - his track, if you will - was centered around one Jim Gordon or, more specifically, what he could do to inconvenience the man.

 

Well. Inconvenience was certainly one way to describe the desired outcome of his plans.

 

He was holed up in his apartment under the excuse that he was still in the process of mourning his recent lost love; and, well, he supposed that wasn’t entirely untrue. There was certainly some part of him that found itself lamenting her loss. A section of his inner self that sincerely felt a deep sadness and regret over the events of the past month or so. It just happened to be the case that a much larger majority of his Self had decided that that particular route wasn’t one he needed or wanted. Every event that had befallen him recently - from Kristen’s murder to his meeting none other than Oswald Cobblepot - had inspired him to follow the path laid out for him. To follow in the Penguin’s footsteps, to achieve his own potential.

 

However, unlike how thoughts of Kristen had been swept under his brain’s metaphorical rug, Oswald lingered on the fringed his mind’s eye. He was well aware that his newfound friend and mentor had found himself in Arkham, and had made a mental note as soon as he’d found out to pay him a visit, but once the ball got rolling with his Jim-related plans everything else had gone out the window. The wellbeing of his friend, unfortunately, included. But by no means had he forgotten about Oswald; rather the opposite, often in his time away from working on his plans his mind would wander over to thoughts of him and memories of the time spent with him before he was sent to Arkham. And any mention of the asylum of his friend he was sure would drag his attention away from his new project and become the new focus of his ‘track’.

 

But, as it stood, his project remained his primary focus. That is, up until one particular night.

 

It wasn’t exactly what Edward would have called a normal night. Unlike previous evenings, which were usually spent pouring over documents and maps in hours-long planning sessions, his current situation was a much more...hands-on experience.

 

He sighed to himself, pulling off his glasses as he sat back in his chair, looking over the bomb he was slowly piecing together on the table in front of him. Once finished and put into action, this would be a wonderful, dramatic entry onto the scene of crime. Surely one that would grab Jim Gordon’s attention, what with all the separate assets and layers to this one, seemingly random event of his design.

 

Just thinking about the brilliance of the eventual execution of his grand plan excited and motivated him to continue his work. However, before he cold return his attention to the near-complete bomb in front of him, his ears happened to catch the radio. He’d ended up developing a liking of having it playing in the background, and before his tinkering he had tuned into his usual station to find some talk show he had no interest in was running, rather than the breaking news reports he was hoping for. In his moment of pause, though, he came to realise that the show had just been interrupted by news coverage.

 

“-the GCPD advise all citizens of the Fort Clinton area to stay alert and not leave their houses after dark. Investigations on the murder have begun as we speak, with authorities already calling this the most high-profile case of this year, so far.” 

 

By this point, Edward had turned in his seat to face the radio. Fort Clinton...that was close to Arkham. Thoughts of Oswald immediately came to the surface, and with them that suppressed sense of guilt that he had almost grown used to now, this past month. The first question that came to mind was if Oswald had escaped the Asylum, but it was unlikely that he would take part in such unnecessarily gratuitous murder. Going off what he knew about his friend last time he saw him, he’d not have much reason to commit a crime of this apparent magnitude. So perhaps now.

 

But could it be one of the other patients? And if so, could Oswald have escaped with them? Was the case even linked to Arkham at all? Letting his plot fall from his mind’s list of priorities with the potential of Arkham being involved, and figuring it pointless to try competing against what was now the GCPD’s - and hence, Jim’s - biggest priority, at least until the case became a less pressing issue, Edward allowed his interest to be piqued. 

 

And maybe, just maybe, he’d allow himself to have a little investigation of his own.

 

\---

 

It certainly seemed that a sudden return to the station came as a surprise to a lot of Edward’s co-workers. However, none seemed more surprised than Jim Gordon himself, who gave him a look of pure, unmasked shock on his arrival.

 

“Ed! We were just about to call and ask if you could come in for a couple days, or at least until this case is solved.” At the mention of the case, the detective pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes with his finger and thumb. It was clear that work had carried on at the station all through the night, with most of the department looking to be suffering from sleeplessness. Wordlessly, Bullock appeared and made his way over to Edward and Jim, passing Jim a freshly made coffee. He was holding his own in his hand.

 

Bullock seemed to assume the current topic of conversation and took over Jim’s spot, letting him take a sip of his drink. “We wouldn’t drag you back in here like this unless the case was urgent, Ed, and this case is. Without a doubt, it’s one of the top-ranking crazy crimes in Gotham - never seen anything like it before.” Bullock’s tone simultaneously intrigued and unsettled Ed; there was no obvious sarcastic overtone, or underlying joking nature to the way he spoke. It was...truly sincere. It was grounded and serious. The weight to his words held horrifying implications, and Jim’s solemn, almost glazed-over expression as he nodded along to his partner’s words only made it clearer. Edward needed to know what was going on.

 

Before long, he found himself huddled over the detectives’ desk, pouring over report papers silently with Jim, while Bullock filled him in on the case. Under normal circumstances he’d only half-listen, skipping idly over the man’s irrelevant comments and joking remarks wherever necessary. As such, it was a strange feeling for these to be missing, and to find himself hanging onto Bullock’s every word as a result. 

 

Cut down to its bare bones, the case was simple to understand. The victim was estimated to have been murdered between two and three hours before the body was discovered in one of Fort Clinton’s back alleys. It was through a regular police patrol that the body was discovered at all and, apparently, the forensics team almost immediately hit a brick wall in their analysis of the victim and the evidence.

 

“They said it was like some kind of animal attack, like something with claws,” Bullock continued, “but too big to be one of those hired dog cases, like from a couple years back. But there’s nothing native to the state big enough to do that kind of damage. And even if we could find something big enough, it doesn’t explain what they found...”

 

Edward opened his mouth, preparing to ask about the specifics of the state of the victim at the scene, but Jim beat him to it. The photos of the scene were placed in front of him, and Edward’s mouth clicked shut.

 

The gravity of the case was made crystal clear as Ed quickly began to make sense of the horror he was staring at. The victim hadn’t been murdered so much as they’d been ripped apart. Their features were in tact enough that they would likely still be identifiable - the face was almost untouched from what he could see, and what could be a bag was silhouetted a little ways away from the body - and there was certainly enough blood for samples to be collected and tested. But the rest of the body was torn up, broken, and disfigured beyond even Ed’s darkest thoughts and violent fantasies. 

 

His interest was caught specifically by the torso, however. It was here that, clearly, forensics had found themselves confused. The entire stomach area seemed to have been torn open and, as other angles of the scene showed, the exposed organs had received similar treatment. It was a ghastly mirror of an animal’s primal hunger, so viscerally clear that it was an obvious explanation for the crime, but details didn’t add up.

 

Like Bullock had pointed out, no native animals were large enough to cause this level of destruction. But beyond that, even, there was a disconnect and the longer Edward looked, the stranger the scene became. There was some element of this that made no sense - something that was off kilter, ever-so-slightly out of tune with all the other elements - but it eluded him.

 

He must have been making an expression reflective of his struggle, as Jim finally spoke up again. “Forensics said something was off about this. I see you see it too.” Huffing out a tired sigh, he picked up the photograph nearest to him. “I can’t make sense of it either right now, but something needs to come of it soon. We need to scout suspects and close this as soon as we can.”

 

With almost comical timing, an officer ran up to the stairway leading up to Jim and Bullock’s station. He stopped at the first couple of steps, clutching a radio transceiver in his hand. He looked panicked. 

 

“Detective Gordon- another attack! At Colgate Heights-”

 

Jim traded a look with Bullock and the latter jogged off after the officer. Ed gave the former his own look, puzzled. “Not going with him, detective?”

 

“No, no, Harvey’s just getting the car. He’ll be ready for us by the time we get outside, but first of all-” Ed almost flinched as Jim, hesitantly, placed a hand on his shoulder in what he assumed was supposed to be a comforting gesture. In practice, it was anything but. Alongside the implications that Jim wanted him to come on the case with him, Edward couldn’t help but be taken aback by the discomfort he so suddenly felt. It wasn’t guilt - no, guilt was harrowing. Guilt was Kristen. This was just...unease. A twinge of wrongness at being so close and so personal with someone he was plotting against just earlier that night. 

 

“I just wanted to ask if everything was okay… I know how difficult it is losing someone you care about...I wanted to thank you for coming out despite still going through all that and, well, if this is too much for you…” Jim trailed off, trusting Edward to be able to follow his meaning. For a second, he found himself so disoriented that he couldn’t follow. It took a moment to ground himself again, just enough to be able to manage a reply.

 

“I should be fine- maybe some time to apply myself to other tasks will help.” A sense of terror coursed through him then, disorientation dissipating. Other tasks? How could he let that one slip… It wouldn’t be much for Jim to go on, but it was still something.

 

And Jim did look puzzled for a moment. It was unclear whether the source of his confusion was Ed’s response in its entirety - his question wasn’t exactly answered, not really - or just one section of it. Nonetheless, it didn’t seem to be a pressing worry of his in that moment and he simply clapped Ed’s shoulder reassuringly, thanked him once again, and motioned for Ed to follow him out to where Bullock was surely waiting.

 

Once his back was turned, Edward let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. It seemed he didn’t have to worry about Jim’s suspicions of him at the moment, but he knew he’d have to tweak approaches to his plans whenever this new case let him. It was with amendments already brewing in his mind, and a silent deal with himself to be more careful with words, that he followed Jim out of the precinct.

 

\---

 

This one was worse. Much worse. 

 

It wasn’t often that Edward had witnessed Jim and Bullock have such a visceral reaction to a crime scene. This was Gotham after all, and there was a tendency for members of the city’s police department to develop a tolerance to crime. Even the most gruesome of murders were often easy for the GCPD’s seasoned detectives to stomach.

 

This, however…

 

Most murders were committed by people. There had been animal-based cases in Gotham’s history; these were usually animals under human use, however, and it had been easy for both the on-scene and forensics teams to conclude the species and breed of animal used and make clear paths to suspects.

 

The fresh body in front of the detective team made it very clear that this was not what they were dealing with. The incisions on the body - focused on the torso and stomach region, once again - were too jagged to be made by a knife (the assumption made by the first officers on the scene). There was no precision to any of the cuts, and too many cuts in close proximity for a bladed weapon of any sort to have been used. The killer would have had to be holding the knives between their fingers. As if they were claws. But, even then, the knives would likely not have cut if held like that; the killer’s grip on the knives would have been much weaker than if they had been holding them normally. But if they had been holding them normally it was unlikely that the incisions would be so close in proximity.

 

Bullock’s theory from after the first murder - that this was an animal attack - seemed to now have more traction. But it still didn’t entirely hold up. The lack of native animals large enough to do this much damage wouldn’t have changed in the past hour or so, and no cases relating to human use of large animals had ever been reported in Gotham. It would simply be too difficult and dangerous to pull off.

 

“There’s a first time for everything?” Bullock quipped dryly. He stood with Jim and Edward a little aways from the scene as another team worked to prepare the victim’s body for transportation back to the precinct, where the forensics team were likely waiting. Jim looked at several pages of notes he was holding - one page his own, the others from other officers on the scene - in silence, mulling over the findings in his own head. Seeing nothing of importance happening between the pair, Edward allowed his gaze and attention to fall back across the crime scene and surrounding area.

 

“-it was a man, officer, I promise you-” 

 

Ed turned to his left where, a few meters away, an officer was talking to a young lady. A witness, if the officer’s held clipboard and the panic blanket draped loosely over the lady’s shoulders were anything to go by. Insistent, the lady spoke again, “I live in the house opposite the alleyway and looked out the window when I heard a noise- the attacker, he was a man but that’s all I can tell you! It’s all I saw, I, his back was turned and he was hidden by the shadows, please believe me-”

 

The officer talked too quiet for Ed to hear, but he must have said something reassuring as the lady’s posture relaxed and she drew the panic blanket more securely around herself. He scribbled down a few extra notes before pulling them from the clipboard, heading over, and passing them to Jim.

 

“Notes on the witness statement- not sure what to think about this one, but she’s insistent it’s her whole truth.” And with that, he left the three of them to it.

 

Jim gave a first glance over the new notes before sighing and folding all of them over, tucking the wad under his arm. “Well,” Bullock interjected, stretching his arms, “back to the precinct. I’ll grab the coffee when we get there.” He looked to Jim, who nodded with a tired smile, and started to make his way towards their car. 

 

Jim held back, however, and Edward felt the urge to walk after Bullock as fast as he could, lest the conversation take an awkward turn once again. But he stopped himself, for fear of giving Jim a reason to be suspicious of him when the time came. There was no harm in being too careful, after all. 

 

His prediction proved right as Jim reached up to pat him on the shoulder in the same reassuring way as he had earlier that night. “Why don’t you head home, Ed? There’s not much we can do until forensics get back to us- not much use in all three of us burning energy. And you’re still on temporary leave technically,” Jim shrugged, smiled, “go get some rest.”

 

Edward picked him up on his offer. He supposed that he should rest as it was likely that the GCPD would want him back at some point tomorrow, but perhaps he could find some time to develop his plans further. He hoped so - with no clear lead to Arkham like he’d hoped, he was already beginning to lose interest, focus shifting back to his schemes again and the new amendments he now had to make. He’d likely have to answer the call if the precinct needed him again, and he didn’t doubt Jim would keep him informed anyway, but he’d made his decision. Until evidence came up that could like the case to Arkham or - though less likely - Oswald, then his focus would remain on messing with Jim Gordon.

 

\---

 

Trudging up the final flight of his flat’s stairs, tired but determined to do at least a little more planning before turning in for the night, Edward came to a halt just before the top.

 

There was a figure sat just outside his door. They were hunched over, their stature and features obscured by the deep purple, striped coat they were wearing, hood up. Despite this - or perhaps even because of it - Edward felt a strong sense of familiarity with the figure. Familiarity that soon turned to recognition, then guilt, as the figure turned to face him. 

 

The dim light of the hall lit up Oswald’s face only slightly. But it was enough.

 

\---

 

Having Oswald back in his apartment after so long was an awkward relief. A horrible oxymoron that Edward couldn’t escape from now that he’d allowed it to happen. Perhaps this was his penance for leaving his friend in Arkham with not one visit to help him through the ordeal; the numerous cases that had led them to the place had given Ed a clue as to the true horrors one could face there.

 

The first hour of Oswald’s stay had been silent so far save for Ed’s offers of refreshments, which were politely turned down. He’d tidied away his half-finished bomb and many sheets of maps and plans before heading to the precinct earlier that night, so there wasn't even a need to tidy. After his offers, he had nothing to distract him from the conversation that he was sure needed to be had.

 

“Mr. Penguin, look, I-” he started, but before he could continue Oswald cut him off with a raised hand. He had a small smile on his face, as if he had an idea what Ed was going to say and intended to correct him before the words could even come out of his mouth. 

 

“Edward, please...if this is about Arkham, you must know that I harbour no ill feelings toward you.” Ed’s mouth, which had stayed embarrassingly open, clicked shut. “During my stay I had...my fair share of troubles, that’s true, but I had always imagined that you would have your own. Given where we left off, I had a feeling you would preoccupy yourself somehow.”

 

Oswald huffed a laugh and Ed smiled in return, but couldn’t help focusing on how Oswald’s demeanour changed ever-so-slightly when talking about his experiences in Arkham. The look in his eyes seemed to hollow out and his smile had faltered. Something had happened within the walls of the asylum and it was unlikely to be something Edward could simply ask about. So he chose not to pry.

 

Edward stifled a yawn. Looking up at his clock he realised it was approaching four in the morning, and it then hit him just how tired he was. He supposed he should get some sleep...he may not have been able to amend his plans like he had hoped but, obviously, regaining contact with his friend took priority. Especially when it seemed as if said friend was in a time of need. Speaking of which…

 

“Please let me repay you somehow, Mr. Penguin-”

 

“Oswald, please,” he interrupted again, “and there’s really no need-”

 

“I insist- stay here, however long you need. Just like old times.” Oswald fixed him with a strange look, then. It was wistful, as if somehow they would never be able to reach that point of connection between the two of them again. Despite this, he nodded with a seemingly reluctant earnestness and then spoke, in a similar manner:

 

“I’d like nothing more.”

 

The stark contrast between his friend’s words and the signs he was giving threw Edward off, and it was there that the conversation stopped for the night. It only occurred to Ed much later, as he turned over and attempted to get comfortable curled up and cramped on one of his sofas, that there was another, third, complicated piece to the puzzle of his friend’s reappearance.

 

It was during Oswald’s time locked up in Arkham that Ed had developed the tendency to have the local radio station playing in the background. It was his way of keeping up with where the GCPD and Jim’s attention would be focused while planning his schemes. There were very few things that would have distracted him from his work and his goal...only word of Oswald or, by extension, Arkham would have diverted his attention. And while Arkham did receive news coverage a few times, Oswald had never got any attention. Not since the day he had been locked up.

 

Which led to only one, logical conclusion.

 

Oswald was never released from Arkham Asylum.

 

\---

 

Edward was woken up just before sunrise the next morning by the front door to his apartment closing shut. He jolted up from his spot on the couch, ignoring the aches from his uncomfortable sleep, just in time to see Oswald drop his keys back in their place and stare back at him, wide-eyed. Still a little groggy from sleep and completely taken aback from the scene in front of him, Ed remained silent. Oswald, who’d evidently been awake for at least a little while, took this moment.

 

“I couldn’t sleep so I decided to take the time to see what had come of Gotham’s underworld while I was gone…” Oswald trailed off there. Edward nodded along when, really, this only confused him more. While it was true that the city’s criminal underbelly was constantly shifting, Oswald had only been in Arkham for around a month. Unless something drastic were to happen, it was unlikely for any changes to the city’s hierarchy of crime to be major or worth caring about.

 

“It is ever-changing,” was what he decided to say in response. He filed his queries of Oswald’s words and behaviour away, alongside the questions raised from their short conversation the night prior. Oswald responded with agreement and another small smile, and made his way fully into the apartment.

 

With that, Edward got up, stretched a few times to try getting rid of the aching, and headed to the kitchen with the intent of starting the morning with a well-cooked breakfast. Before he could really get started, however, the phone rang.

 

The phone in his apartment only rang for one reason, so Edward already knew what this meant. Picking the phone up, his suspicions were proven correct.

 

“Ed,” Jim started over the line, “sorry if we woke you but it’s urgent. Another witnessed murder, this time in Red Hook. Walnut Street.”

 

“I’ll meet you there, Detective.” Edward hoped Jim’s reception masked the monotone, irked nature of his voice. It seemed that it either had or the man just didn’t pick up on it, as Jim thanked him before ending the call.

 

Huffing and putting the phone down, Edward put away the crockery and food he had taken out to make breakfast. His interest in the case had reached an all new low; Oswald was right here, in his apartment, and had brought with him a series of questions that took much higher priority in his mind now. The only reason he had taken interest in the case was because of a slim chance it could have been related to Arkham, somehow. A conclusion based solely on geographical evidence, with no other evidence from the case to back it up. How could he have wasted his own time like this? Well, he supposed he was paying the consequences now.

 

When he finished tidying the kitchen area, Edward noticed Oswald looking at him with that same wistful look from across the room, where he was sat on the bed. He couldn’t understand that look; Edwished for them both to be back where they were two months ago. Before Arkham happened, before this case happened. It seemed as if Oswald did too, but felt it couldn’t happen. As if there was some kind of barrier in the way. Like something was different, now, but so much so that it couldn’t be changed and they could never go back. 

 

If the case gave him time, maybe he could get to the bottom of it.

 

\---

 

Maybe this was his penance, Edward thought, as the case didn’t give him time.

 

Following the forensics results from the Colgate Heights murder, it had been hypothesized that the murderer was not human. Scraps of DNA samples and physical evidence from the victim pointed towards some kind of unknown species of animal being the culprit. Despite the Colgate Heights witness account contradicting the theory, the GCPD were inclined to go where the physical evidence was pointing. Which was a solid conclusion...at least, until the Red Hook murder happened.

 

Physically, the scene was similar to the ones at the Heights and Clinton; stomach and torso torn open, organs removed and damaged. There were, however, a few slight differences.

 

First of all, the victim’s neck and areas of their hips and thighs had been eaten. The culprit seemed to have bitten clean into the flesh meaning they likely had sharp, serrated teeth. But the shape of the marks matched those of a human bite, understandably confusing everyone at the scene. Alongside this were bloody handprints left on several parts of the victim’s body, as well as a few areas of the surrounding floor. These showed a human-like hand structure, but with noticeable and unnerving differences: fingers that were elongated into tapered points, like claws, and a small protrusion out of the back of the palm that tapered to another, smaller point.

 

Secondly, throwing another spanner in the works, was a second witness account. Alongside their insistence of it being a human figure committing the crime, this time there was photo evidence; the witness was able to take a single picture with their phone’s camera before being spotted by the attacker, who then fled the scene. The image wasn’t the best quality - the camera’s flash brightened the scene a little too much, almost - but the culprit was, indeed, human. But something was off…

 

They were naked, making it clear that their natural skin tone was a pale white, but their arms were oddly shaped and coloured. Their shoulders appeared as they should, but from there downwards the limbs started taking a thinner and more rough appearance. At first it looked like they were scaled, but some of the ‘scales’ were longer than others and protruding outwards from the arms. Not scales, but feathers. The arms, feathers and all, were a oily black colour. The killer’s head was bowed, lowered towards the body of the victim, and their legs were drawn up in front of them, making the arms the and back the only discernible features of their body. But, in a way, that was enough. The GCPD did not, at least, have a better idea of what they were after.

 

Once again sending the victim’s body to the forensics team Jim allowed Edward to head home, sending him off with a promise to give him an update when the results came back. Despite having a boost in interest of the case - he couldn’t deny that this twist in the tale was unexpected and truly fascinating - Ed found himself much more interested, still, in getting to the bottom of his own, personal case surrounding Oswald Cobblepot.

 

It was with this in mind that he headed home in a brainstorm, thinking about ways to get through to his friend and rekindle what they once had. He was so close to finalising a plan of action when he made it through his front door to find that Oswald was nowhere in sight.

 

His first instinct was to panic. This was worse than the first time Oswald left the flat unannounced; at least that time he found out when his friend was back, safe. Right now he was out there, somewhere in the city, when a murder had happened just a few hours ago in only the next district over, just across the river.

 

But there wasn’t much Edward could do. If he went looking for Oswald, there was no guarantee he would find him or that he wouldn’t get attacked. If he told the GCPD, Oswald could end up back in Arkham again, since he was never officially released. The only effective thing he could do...was stay in his apartment.

 

With that, he decided to put his nerves to use. Instead of allowing himself to panic, he simply turned on the radio - an action almost natural to him, now - and took to the kitchen.

 

One of the ideas he’d come up with when brainstorming was to recreate some of the meals he and Oswald shared before he got taken to the asylum. A fair few of them were takeaway meals, especially towards the end of his friend’s stay, but initially a lot of them were home-cooked. Given that they hadn’t eaten breakfast yet today, he began making the large selection of bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, and pancakes that he had made on one of the first mornings of their friendship.

 

Just as Ed had finished plating up all the food and arranging the table, Oswald stumbled through the door. As soon as he looked up, Ed realised something was wrong. 

 

Oswald had managed to get a few steps into the apartment, but no further. He was shaking on the spot in the doorway, his coat seemed to have even more holes in it, and he was looking downwards - hood obscuring his face, hands in his pockets - hiding himself from Edward’s view. 

 

Concerned, Ed made his way over quickly. He first shut and locked the door before leading Oswald towards the sofas and sitting him down.

 

Once sat down, Oswald almost curled in on himself. The familiarity of the image hit Edward like a train, catching him off guard. Something was horribly wrong; the only time the Penguin had even been known to falter like this was when his mother had died. Nothing that Edward could think of could cause the same level of pain as that, surely...Oswald had reacted back then like it was a physical wound-

 

Fear gripped him. He reached his hand toward the hood of his friend’s coat and gripped the edge of it. Oswald froze.

 

“Oswald..? I’m going to lift it.” Knowing his friend would stop him if it was absolutely out of the question to do so, Ed slowly pulled the hood back.

 

As soon as the hood was removed, Ed stopped in his tracks. Oswald’s skin was paler than he had ever seen it, even after he had saved him from the woods that fateful night. But what immediately grabbed Ed’s attention was the blood, splattered and drying across his features.

 

Oswald must have noticed the rising panic as he then spoke, insistent, “Edward I’m not hurt, but this is dangerous- you’re in danger right now.”

 

The reassurance of his friend being unharmed made the panic subside somewhat, but Edward’s eyes continued to flutter over his face. Something wasn’t adding up, there was something else alarming here.

 

“Edward, please, I need you to listen-” Oswald’s tone became more pleading, but the man in question was too focused on the puzzle at hand. Something was still off; it was staring him in the face, possibly literally, and he needed to work it out. Oswald’s eyes widened as he pleaded again “-Ed, please-” and they were hollow. They were dark, almost black, against his pasty, pale skin and looked almost entirely made of pupil, as if his irises had been swallowed up.

 

Oswald leaned forward as he kept insisting “-you need to get out of here, now, please-” and his hair brushed ever-so-slightly against Edward’s hand. Distantly, the phone rang. Oswald was shaking again. Ed moved his hand, slowly, towards Oswald’s hair. It looked different, strange, as if it wasn’t hair anymore, not entirely. It stuck out in strange directions and looked fluffier than normal - Oswald’s hair was never fluffy - and some bits of it looked as if they’d be strangely hard, and the softer parts were stemming from those harder parts.

 

His hand was so close to touching it when Oswald’s own reached up and clasped his wrist. The phone had stopped, the answer machine calling out, and Jim’s voice rang out across the apartment.

 

“Ed, this is urgent. There’s been another murder at West Chelsea Hill just a few blocks from your flat, in Collins Street. If you’re listening to this do not leave your flat-”

 

Staring, chilled, at Oswald’s hand, Edward wanted to scream. He found he couldn’t.

 

The bloody hand holding his wrist was eerily familiar, but looked surreal and haunting up close. The elongated fingers tapered off into sharp claws that hovered, dangerously, over his skin, unable to pierce it from the way his wrist was being held but inflicting the same terror nonetheless. The single, smaller claw from the protrusion at the back of the palm was scraping against the inside of his wrist. That one, he knew, could do harm. The way that it twitched, it seemed like it wanted to but that Oswald was, somehow, managing to hold it back. 

 

Pushing his arm up slightly and pulling back at the same time, Ed managed to wrench his arm from his friend’s grasp. Flakes and specks of drying blood left a handprint on his wrist. The force of the pull made him fall back a little on the sofa, giving him a bit of distance between himself and Oswald, as well as giving him a view of his other hand, hiding itself in the long sleeve of the tattered coat. 

 

Looking up to his friend’s face, he found the same wistful expression as before back there again. Stuttering, he tried to form a sentence. “When- when did this..? Did Arkham? Why didn’t- I could’ve helped, you didn’t have to-!” Oswald only shook his head in response, looking down.

 

Edward thought he heard a whispered apology. The last thing he saw was a flurry of feathers and a clawed hand.

 

\---

 

Groggy, uncomfortable, and suffering from a throbbing headache, Edward regained consciousness. Opening his eyes, he couldn’t focus. He lifted his hand to the source of the headache, pulling it away to find blood. 

 

He shut his eyes to spare himself the queasiness of his unfocused vision, taking a few breaths to centre himself as he tried to sit up on the floor. In the background, somewhere distant, the radio was still playing. He must’ve forgotten about it and left it on when Oswald came home-

 

“-another gruesome murder on Eagle Street in West Chelsea Hill, the GCPD are already in pursuit of the culprit-”

 

Oswald-

 

Propelled by the hope that maybe it wasn’t too late to save his friend, Ed forced himself up from the feather-ridden floor and out the door. Luckily it seemed that his friend was still in the area; Eagle Street was only six blocks away, it wouldn’t take long to get there. He just hoped that the GCPD didn’t get there first.

 

Stumbling down the stairs of the flat, Edward’s vision cleared up enough when he reached the bottom for him to begin pick up the pace. By the time he reached Eagle Street he was practically sprinting, looking around frantically for his friend. 

 

Looking out at the river’s edge, he spotted two figures heading towards the end of one of the docks, one dragging the other, limp, along with them. Sure, determined, Edward sprinted over.

 

When he arrived at the last third of the dock he slowed down and rested, hands-on-knee, winded, stitches beginning to burn painfully on his side. He could barely speak, lungs heaving for air, but tried desperately to get his voice to reach his friend. Police sirens were sounding in the distance, getting closer by the second, only adding to his insistence to reach his friend.

 

“Os… Oswald, Oswal… Oswald…” He looked up, expression betraying his desperation, to see the figure stood up and carrying the other was now looking to him.

 

His repeats of his friend’s name stopped. His mouth hung open for a moment before clicking shut. The sirens were impossibly close, he could hear car doors shutting near the other end of the dock. The blood on his wrist was dry and he was covered in feathers. His friend was gone.

 

What stood before him was no longer human. There was no resemblance left to a human body; the arms were too slim and extended into talons, the calves had snapped into a second joint and extended into another pair of talons, plumage had developed all the way down the body from the neck to the lower back where a fan-like tail had developed. Even the intricacies of the face were no longer human, with the sclera a dark shade of black, only discernible from the pupils by a small, white ring that imitated an iris. The ears were gone - from the ring of drying blood around the area they would have originally been they may have even fallen off - and the teeth were sharp, serrated, barely hidden by lips that seemed to have been caught by them, purple bruises developing over tiny, perfect tooth marks.

 

The creature looked at Edward once. A cold glance that held no recognition, before pulling its prey into Gotham River.

 

Oswald Cobblepot was gone when he entered Arkham Asylum. He was gone forever, now.


End file.
